


My Usual

by phroobin



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Barista AU, Coffee Shops, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:52:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phroobin/pseuds/phroobin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The barista's back is turned - probably cleaning the machines, Dean thinks - and he slouches against the lacquered wood, clearing his throat. He bites back a chuckle when the barista jumps, spinning on his heel, and Dean finds himself looking up into what he thinks are the bluest eyes he's ever seen and god help him, he's drowning in the vast fucking ocean of them.</p><p>[An AU in which Castiel is a barista at a little coffee house that Dean finds quite by accident one day.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sugar Me Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8471) by shellyknack. 



The clock chimes seven o'clock in the morning, and Dean questions why he's even alive. He'd spent the previous night trying to escape the pain that came with the anniversary of his mother's death, the hurt gripping his heart with spectre thin fingers, as he fed crisp notes earned in the past month working the bar at the Roadhouse straight back into Ellen's pocket in exchange for alcohol. The sweet lull of the honeyed liquid had lapped at the shore of his mouth and tumbled down his throat, numbing the ache for a while. 

Now, though, he's left with a headache the size of Russia and a purpling smudge on his neck left by a pretty brunette girl who trailed her fingers down his chest and who, try as he may, he can't recall the name of. _It may have begun with R_ , he thinks, _or maybe an M_. But then again, those two are pretty different, so he doesn't rely on either being right.

Twisting onto his front, Dean buries his face in a pillow, pulling the duvet closer around his body, and waits for the comforting arm of the sandman to curl across his shoulder. It doesn't come, and his headache ricochets up from a measly 3 to a 7 on the pain-o-meter that he and Sammy invented in high school; back when Dean would get into fights with people three times his size and Sam would patch him up with a sigh, and a fish hook, and a length of thread. Without his brother, Dean wonders where he'd be. Probably battered and bleeding on the side of the road, and that's a thought that makes him smile. 

"Sammy?" The elder man calls, the syllables sticking in his throat and clogging up his mouth, the word slurred. There's no reply, so Dean figures he's probably out getting breakfast with his girlfriend, Jess, who is arguably the one person other than Dean himself that Sam cares for. 

With a sigh he presses a hand to his temple, the realisation that his brother isn't available to help fresh in his mind as he rolls out of bed tentatively and begins the long trek across the floor to the kitchen in a half-hearted search for coffee. "Fuck," he mutters, clinging to the counter before the fog clouding his vision clears just enough for him remember that he ran out of coffee a few days ago. "I guess it's a trip to a coffee house." 

A shower and two doses of tylenol later, Dean is out his apartment and has slipped into the seat of his Impala, cushioned between the soft leather of the seat and the harsh press of the steering wheel. He pats the dashboard, smiling softly at the machine he lovingly calls 'baby' and starts her up, the purr of the engine soothing beneath his hands. And then he drives small loops around the town, watching the people huddled under their umbrellas change against the constant backdrop of brick and steel and glass. He follows the same routes he always does until, on pure impulse, he takes a right down a road off the high street, deciding to head away from Starbucks where people mill around, talking obnoxiously, their consumerist hearts etched onto the thin sheaths of green paper that they hand over to the cashier without any thought. Oh, how Dean despises them!

The small lane he ends up on is a strange mish-mashed conglomeration of shops and houses, and Dean glides along for a while before stopping as a softly-lit building catches his eye. A sign swings gently in the breeze, rounded and faded blue with a minimalist coffee cup printed in the center. Dean bites his lip and makes a quick judgement call, needing the caffeine like breathing, before he makes the dash from the safety of the car into the unknown territory, rain splattering the lapels of his jacket, running in rivulets down his cheeks as he pushes open the door and steps inside.

There's only a smattering of people, so few that Dean could count them on his hands, and warmth envelops him like a blanket. The smell of coffee sticks to his skin, melting through the flesh and bones and muscle and sinew. He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, slips his jacket from his shoulders onto the chair, and crashes down into a seat by the window, head in his hands as he watches the world go by in slow-motion through the rain-spattered pane. The droplets race across the glassy surface, joining and separating and joining again, a gentle consummation between two parts of the same entity. He breathes out deeply, letting the atmosphere wrap comforting arms around his body. It pushes through his chest, hands cupping his heart, and he smiles sleepily. 

It takes a few minutes to shake the drowsiness from his bones and free himself from the wooden confines of the chair to pad over to the counter. Glass-fronted cabinets full of cakes and biscuits in various colours and flavours catch his eye before he looks over the chalk board brazenly announcing the drinks on the menu. The barista's back is turned - probably cleaning the machines, Dean thinks - and he slouches against the lacquered wood, clearing his throat. He bites back a chuckle when the barista jumps, spinning on his heel, and Dean finds himself looking up into what he thinks are the bluest eyes he's ever seen and god help him, he's drowning in the vast fucking ocean of them. 

"I apologise for my lack of response. It was rude to have kept you waiting," the man says in a voice that's all gravel and razorblades scraping over skin. He stares intently at Dean, twisting his fingers in the charcoal apron slung about his front. "How can I be of assistance?"

"Can I get an Americano?" Dean asks, eyes flickering over the man, cataloguing his features. The bed-messy dark hair, stubble speckled jaw and guarded expression speaks of experience but chapped lips, honest eyes and the earnest slope of his brow tells another story. _He's like a riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a.... taco_ , Dean thinks, and he leans a little further forward. "Two sugars."

"Of course," the dark stranger replies, swiping a hand across his face tiredly before setting to work with the order. Dean watches him carefully, noting the way his hands move; small calculated movements that look almost like clockwork. He doesn't know why, but he feels the urge to talk to this man, to open up, and it's strange - even with Sam there's a strict no-chick-flick-moments rule, and it's adhered to pretty damn hard on pain of TV control.

"You sound like you've had a long day.. I uh, I know that feeling," he says, shooting a sympathetic look at the barista's back. "I'm Dean, by the way." The response he gets is silence, and Dean goes back to watching the mechanical movements of his hands, which are currently occupied with writing sweeping black lines across the surface of the take-away cup.

When the man eventually turns back around, his lips are curled up into a gentle smile and Dean catches a glimpse of the shiny brass name tag pinned to his crumpled apron as he slides the order across the wooden surface of the counter. 

"Castiel," Dean says, rolling the name on his tongue, slouching a little more. His fingers close around the corregated cardboard of take-away coffee cup, caressing its sides, the digits cutting through the neat black lines that read 'D-E-A-N; Americano, sugar (x2)' that the barista has written across the white canvas in block capitals. "Are you named after an angel?"

Castiel stares at him, unblinking, face deadpan save the slight knit of his eyebrows to show any sign of shock. In his years walking the crust of the Earth - trekking through the wilderness of high school and college, trapping himself within the confines of musty books and old words instead of the company of people - he had been greeted with frowns and sneers when it came to introductions; a strange name for an even stranger boy. "Yes," he murmurs, voice dipping quieter. "How did you know that?"

Dean traces the 'D' on his cup with a fingertip, eyes dropping a little. He says nothing for a while, holding tightly to the spool of silence that spans out between them, the line feeding out slowly until Dean can't stand it anymore. 

"My Mom. When I was young she used to tell me there were angels looking over me and my kid brother, Sammy," He smiles softly, sadly, his eyes flickering with the memories. He can recall them, but they're like old polaroids - grainy and fuzzy, fading over the years. "Kids in my class grew up with lullabies, but Sammy and I fell asleep to the names of angels."

He hears Castiel make a faint noise, and now he's started he can't stop; it's a flood pouring out of him and he's lucky that there's only three other people in the coffee house, one of whom is sleeping. "Yesterday was the anniversary of her death," Dean says casually, but his fingers grip the cup tighter. "That's why I came here.. I was looking for somewhere to get coffee and nurse my hangover." 

He shakes his head, a mirthless chuckle bubbling up from his throat and he fishes in his pocket for change. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Cas. I'll just... I'll pay and be on my way." Looking up, he notices the barista has frozen, lips parted in an gentle 'o'. Shocked.

"You called me Cas," Castiel murmurs, holding onto the countertop a little. He sways ever so slightly, and Dean worries the man is going to faint.

"Should I.. stick to Castiel?"

"No. No, I like it. Thank you, Dean." The sentences are quiet. Dean wants to clutch at them, pull the syllables tight against his body and wrap himself in the words. He smiles weakly and drops the change into the barista's hand. 

"If you ever need someone with whom to talk, I am always here." There's a pause as Castiel reconsiders what he said. "Well, I am not always here. My shifts are 5am to 9pm, Monday to Friday. Saturday is when my brother, Gabriel, takes his shift." He smiles gently, passing Dean a napkin. "If you should need someone then, I will be here."

Dean thanks him with his eyes and his mouth, nods once and turns, slinking back to his seat by the window. Castiel's eyes follow him, tracing the outline of his body against the smooth glass panelling and he leans against the cash register, watching Dean watching the world go by.

The words 'I'll be waiting' hang unsaid in the air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel does a routine sweep of the café before he spots a form hovering by the door. He does a double take; in the six years the brothers have dedicated to their minuscule empire, Castiel has never seen somebody stood outside, ready to buy coffee, before they have even opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, this one was really difficult to write due to my AS exams; my brain has been completely on the fritz and I've been hovering between the stages of absolute panic and far too lucid. This was written in snatches where I could grab time, and I hope to fuck it all flows and makes sense. If it doesn't? Well, I apologise profusely in advance.
> 
> Anyway, on with the chapter!
> 
> PS: If you've got time, I'd adore reviews and critique so I can build upon any feedback and improve my writing style!

Castiel doesn't know why, but he spends the night tossing fitfully, sleep evading him as weariness sinks deeper into his bones. Every time he begins to drift off his memory skips back like the needle on a record and he's met with a vast sea of viridian green eyes that he just wants swim in. His lack of sleep means he ends up clambering up from the warmth of his bed before his alarm buzzes, pulling his uniform on slowly as he glances blearily around. The clock reads 4:26am, so he figures he has time to grab a croissant from the cling-filmed bundle Gabriel left on the coffee house counter. While Castiel would complain of his brother's lack of shifts, he knows that Gabriel helps the business in other ways; the colourful array of treats set out on display for goo-goo eyed customers with a sweet tooth are lovingly prepared by the older sibling, who works tirelessly throughout the week to keep up with the demand for various cookies and cupcakes. He does it all with a smile, though, and without his input Castiel is sure the coffee house would have a substantial decline in customers, although this is a thought he keeps to himself.

Humming gently, the younger sibling makes his way downstairs, fingertips caressing the polished wood banister as he moves carefully. Having their quarters above the cafe is one of the perks; it is almost impossible to be late and, thanks to the size of the coffee shop, the apartment the brothers share is a little more than spacious. More importantly, though, is that it means Castiel is close to the one thing he puts his heart and soul into; the business that he and Gabriel had started alone.

From a young age, the two youngest of kin had longed to escape from the tangled web of family life; their father had abandoned them years ago and, like Dean, they had lost their mother to the gnarled, withered hands of Death. Their brothers, Michael and Lucifer, argued constantly over who was to take charge, and their once happy home was turned into a pressure cooker that was ready to explode at any moment. Castiel had needed out, like Anna had before them, and Gabriel more so.

They'd started saving money early. Every pay-slip they earned from jobs, every cheque from family members for birthdays or Christmas, every penny obtained from selling anything they didn't need; it all went into the bank, gaining interest, pushing them forward towards their dream of escape. It was only after their cousin, Balthazar, had donated a substantial amount to their pooled resources that the two brothers had enough basic building blocks to start cementing the foundations. It had taken a while to figure out which direction to take, though, and the plans scrawled in stark black ink across stark white pages that found shelter in the trash can were all the proof needed.

Gabriel had wanted a bakery, a safe haven in which he could create pastries to bring delight to others, and Castiel had just _wanted_ with every fibre of his being. At the time he could never quite put his finger on what, but if he thinks hard about it now he supposes he wanted something normal, something miles away from the debris of his broken family life.

They had written a list, mapping out what each of them had needed. Gabriel's read, in elongated and mostly illegible script, "something homely and comfortable where I could make and sell my own food". Castiel's simply said "people". Yet, from half a sheet of paper, their idea grew. It was a seed that with nurturing and affection blossomed slowly into reality - into the very thing their business now was; a hub of loyal customers, good food, and a coffee shop to be proud of.

Castiel smiles at the memory as he bites into the pastry. It's buttery and soft and there's no denying Gabriel is talented. Wiping his hands on the charcoaled front of his apron, Castiel does a routine sweep of the café before he spots a form hovering by the door. He does a double take; in the six years the brothers have dedicated to their minuscule empire, Castiel has never seen somebody stood outside, ready to buy coffee, before they have even opened.

He moves slowly across the tiled flooring, absently tucking chairs into their positions by the tables, neatening things carefully before he reaches the café entrance. Looking through the square pane, he sees the man from the day before - _Dean_ , his brain supplies helpfully - who quirks an eyebrow and flashes a half smile at Castiel.

"Open the door, Cas," he hears Dean say, the rugged mountain edges of his voice muffled through the layer of glass and wood that stands between them. Castiel raises his own eyebrow in reply but his hands reach for the latch, sliding catches and locks open until the door swings on its hinges and the other man is allowed to step over the threshold. "You said your shift started at 5," Dean offers as explanation, slipping past Castiel to cross the floor to the till. Like the day before, he slouches against the mahogany, drumming his fingers against the wooden counter in an off-beat rhythm. "Can I get the same as before, Cas? Americano, two sugars."

Castiel almost repeats the order at the same time, but instead he settles for nodding once and he pushes the bundle of croissants at the man opposite. "Please, do take one. My brother made them, much like all our produce," he says, softly, standing on tip-toes to get a new tin of coffee beans from a too-high shelf. He can feel Dean's eyes on him, frowning as he watches the barista struggle a little before the pastry calls his attention and Castiel succeeds in retrieving the coffee as Dean bites into the food. A soft, almost obscene noise splits the air and Castiel almost drops the tin. The sound scrapes down his spine, and he shivers a little.

"Th's is.... fuckin goof," Dean murmurs in response, mouth full of pastry as the barista works carefully. He chews thoughtfully and swallows, closing his eyes as Castiel starts working on his own drink. "Really fucking good."

"Gabriel certainly is a wonderful cook," Castiel replies, whirling to face the younger man. He sets the coffee mug down on the counter top and begins spooning sugar in with a small smile, humming quietly whilst he works. "How have you been, Dean?"

"Good! I've been good," Dean answers. The response is too quick, and Castiel raises an eyebrow. His blue eyes search Dean's slowly and the younger man's resolve cracks, the painted front put out on display peeling, falling away.

Castiel runs his tongue over his top lip in thought, leaning on the counter as he passes Dean the mug. Steam rises between them, curling slowly up into the air, and Castiel lifts his own cup to his lips, breathing in the scent. For someone who works in a coffee shop, he finds it ironic that he doesn't even like the liquid; He's always been more of a tea man. "What has been bothering you?"

Dean simply looks up at Castiel with green eyes. "Nothing. I'm okay, Cas. I wanted to apologise for yesterday is all." He sips his coffee calmly, making another soft noise as the liquid fills his mouth, and he smiles again. Castiel decides right then and there that he prefers it when Dean smiles and that if it were up to him, he'd never allow the man to stop.

"I assure you, Dean, you have nothing you need apologise for. As I said before, I am here if ever you need someone to talk to." Castiel traces the rim of his mug as he studies Dean's face, absent-mindedly trying to count the handful of freckles that map out the younger man's features. "And whilst the help is free, I am afraid you will have to pay for that coffee."

Dean chuckles and Castiel can't help smiling too; the sound is infectious, and he wants to wrap himself up in the sonances and reverberations and never come out. The younger of the two digs in his pocket, producing a fistful of coins that he counts out carefully, pushing the correct amount over. "You've got a nice place here, Cas. Good food, good coffee, great staff," Dean cocks an eyebrow and it takes Castiel a while to work out he's talking about him. "Your parents must be proud."

Castiel falters, his smile dropping, and he drops the coins in shock as the impact of the words hit him in the chest, squeezing his heart until he's gasping for breath. "They're dead," he replies, and he wraps his arms around his waist, as if trying to hold himself together. "Or my Father might as well be."

Dean lurches forward, catching Castiel's shoulder. He speaks softly, gently, staring up into the barista's eyes. "Ariel, Azrael," he says, and while it takes Castiel a while to fully tune in, he eventually realizes that Dean is murmuring the names of angels to calm him. 

"....Barachiel, Balthazar, Chamuel, Eremiel, Gabriel, Grigori." Castiel feels himself begin to relax, and he uncurls his arms. When his body doesn't split in half, he smiles weakly and presses a hand to his forehead, listening to the rhythm of Dean's voice. "You're okay, Cas. It's okay."

There's a brief moment of silence that Castiel uses to gulp mouthfuls of his tea, thankful for the hug it gives his insides. "I.. I must apologise, Dean. I was caught off-guard."

"No, Cas. That was my fault. I guess we both come from broken homes, huh," Dean pauses, dipping his finger into the depths of his coffee. When he continues, his voice is darker, the edges even rougher than before. "I'm not... a feelings person, but I've come to like it here. And if your family is anything like mine we could talk to each other."

Castiel stares at him, eyes focussing and unfocussing a little as he tries to count Dean's freckles again. "I would like that.. It would be nice to have a.. friend to talk to." The word feels alien on his tongue, but so inherently right at the same time and from the way Dean is smiling at him, he agrees too.

The green-eyed man breaks the amiable silence after a few minutes, pushing himself up from the counter after draining his mug. "I've got some errands to run before Bobby opens the garage, so I've gotta take my leave." Castiel thinks he hears some regret in the words, and his heart lurches a little. "I'll see you around, Cas."

The barista nods, watching Dean leave before bending to pick up the dropped coins left scattered on the floor. Castiel presses a hand to his chest, and shakes his head. He is vaguely aware he may be becoming too attached too fast but then again, he can't bring himself to care.

 _Next time_ , he thinks, _I'll have Dean's order ready for him_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's words are so rushed that the syllables stick together. To anyone else, it would have been incomprehensible garble, but Dean is not anyone; he is Sam's brother, and he knows him even more intimately than he does the engines of cars. He can decipher anything that comes out of his sibling's mouth but when he hears the words "Dad's been in a car crash" he wishes he couldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say, except this might be a little bit sadder than the previous two chapters, and it was written whilst listening to [this beautiful music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFX6YAKOOm8) on repeat. If you want, you can probably listen to the music whilst reading because it's kind of calming.
> 
> I should also warn you in advance that if you're reading this fic in the hope that there will be smut or sex later, you're in the wrong place, and you've been mistaken, and I won't be offended if you quit now to find something else that will pander to that want!

By the fourth day in a row that Dean visits the café, the two men have settled into a strange kind of rhythm; when the green-eyed man comes in at 6am, an hour before anyone else, there is always a steaming mug of his regular order waiting for him on the counter. Sometimes this is accompanied by one of Gabriel's pastries, and sometimes not, but either way Dean's face lights up and Castiel wonders every time why it feels like his heart has swollen three sizes bigger. 

They talk about everything, and slowly but surely their understanding of each other grows. It balloons outwards, two isolated bubbles that begin to join until both Dean and Castiel are caught within a venn-diagram of thoughts and feelings; two different people with separate interests, bound together by the simple act of caring.

Dean talks animatedly about his jobs at both Harvelle's Roadhouse and the Singer Salvage Yard as well as his brother, Sam, and his hands move in time to his words. Castiel finds out that the younger Winchester is studying law at Stanford, and that he's only over for break with his girlfriend. Sometimes Dean grows quieter as he realises that his sibling will inevitably leave again, like he did before. Because from what Castiel can gather, Sam is a white dove flying the nest, moving onwards and upwards to better prospects. Of course, it's not all sad, and Castiel smiles as Dean tells him about how he and his brother used to go on road trips during Summer, crossing unknown landscapes across the country with only the familiarity of each other's presence and the home they made together inside the Impala. 

"I think I would like to meet Sam," Castiel tells Dean one morning, and the younger of the two looks up at him, coffee mug half-way to his lips. He raises an eyebrow and the gash of his mouth quirks, and Dean tells the barista that he'll bring him along some time.

That night after dinner, Castiel digs the calendar he bought on impulse at the beginning of the year out from its coffin beneath the bed. Still wrapped in cellophane, a thin film of dust has gathered on the surface, and Castiel struggles with it for a while before his nails find purchase on the plastic and he's able to pull the calendar free of its bonds. He flips through the pages, watching the landscapes change with each month, until he finally reaches the right one. And then he sits, cross-legged, pen in hand, and diligently writes the letter 'D' in the top right hand corners on all the days that Dean has visited. A warm feeling climbs up his spine as he stares at the capital letter printed side-by-side, and he realises he's gotten way too close to the man who stumbled into his life quite by accident only four days ago. He sighs in exasperation, props the calendar up on the small bedside table and decides he should just go to bed; after all, tomorrow is Saturday, and Gabriel is on shift. _Although_ , he thinks as he sinks into his mattress, _Gabriel would probably appreciate some help, and I have nothing better to do_. He falls alseep to the sounds of the moving cars outside his window, safe within the caress of the four walls that make up his apartment.

Dean is just beginning his shift at the Roadhouse when Castiel crawls into his nest of blankets. Although both Dean's jobs are tiring he wouldn't swap them for anything, and after all the kindess both Ellen and Bobby have shown him, he thinks of them both as family. If he's honest, he enjoys what he does too; at the Salvage Yard he repairs cars, working mechanically and carefully. He knows the inside of the machines intimately, and he finds there's something theraputic in the way things work the same, despite different makes and models. He supposes the joy stemmed from when his father, John, had entrusted him with the Impala before being deployed, and through the repeated trips with Sam he had learnt to fix it when things went wrong. Dean likes the Roadhouse for another reason, though; there he gets the company of others, and Ellen's daughter Jo is always on hand to provide more than enough entertainment as well as a quick drink when her Mom's attention is averted. 

He's in the middle of pouring a beautiful red-headed woman a drink when the phone rings at 11-something-pm, so he leaves Corbett to pick it up. The woman smiles at him softly, watching him over the top of her margarita, and it's only when his nervous colleague tells him quietly that Sam is on the line that Dean stops paying attention to the way her lips move when she talks to take the call.

"Sammy?" He asks, panic colouring his tone. He's pretty sure his heart is going to beat right out of the milky cage of his ribs, and his sentences come out fast, because Sam never phones work unless it's an emergency. "Sammy, what's wrong?" 

Sam's words are so rushed that the syllables stick together. To anyone else, it would have been incomprehensible garble, but Dean is not anyone; he is Sam's brother, and he knows him even more intimately than he does the engines of cars. He can decipher anything that comes out of his sibling's mouth but when he hears the words "Dad's been in a car crash" he wishes he couldn't.

Dean grips the phone tighter, knuckles straining against the skin, the white of his bones bleeding through. The world seems to slow around him and god fucking help him because suddenly he can't breathe. He presses his forehead to the wall, revelling in the cold as he struggles to remember that it's in for two and out for three, and then he begins to talk. "It's okay, Sammy. D'you know where he is?"

Sam rattles off the address, his voice dead, and Dean promises he will come and collect him. The drive is quiet, tense, save the casette that blasts out Kansas in an eerily cheerful manner. Dean presses eject as soon as they get to "carry on my wayward son". 

Both the boys have seen John injured in battle, they've seen him battered and bloodied and bruised - he is a soldier, after all - but nothing could have prepared them for the sight of John, sprawled brokenly across the hospital bed. His eyes are closed, his body bent out of shape, blood oozing from beneath a bandage wrapped about his head. Worst of all, though, is the look of utter calm across the unconscious man's face. Dean draws a deep breath, his legs shaking as he forces them forward, through the door, straight to John's side. Sam follows stiffly, his movements hesitant and unsure as he watches Dean takes command of the chair beside their father. Sometimes he wonders how his brother can be so calm about everything but then he remembers that Dean was raised on harsh words, tragedy, and the trigger of a gun. He remembers that Dean had to grow up fast in order to look after him whilst the person who was supposed to look after them neglected his duty for the thrill of the fight. For some reason that makes Sam taste bile; he resents his father for it, for taking away Dean's childhood, and yet Dean forgives him so easily. He always has. 

And so Sam watches, hovering, as Dean rests his hand on the bed beside their father's. Their fingertips are so close to touching, and yet so far; the gaps in between are oceans that span across the waves of the sheets, they're miles of vast desert that stretches as far as the eye can see. Sam thinks it's like the time when he was younger (and drunk) that he and Dean sat on the hood of the Impala watching the midnight skies, and Sam put his hands out and tried to catch the stars in his palms so that he could give them to his brother as a thank you for all that he had done over the years, and Dean just laughed and took another sip of his beer.

The doctor comes and goes in bursts, filling them in on what's going on. She talks about serious injury; of blood loss and contusions to John's liver and kidney. It feels like she's rubbing salt in the wound when later she tells them that there's early signs of cerebral edema. The machine bleeps out a steady pulse, and Dean eventually looks up, eyes searching Sam's in the too-bright glare of the hospital lights.

"Doctor... will he be okay?" Dean asks, hiding the fear with a set jaw and jaded eyes, his hand shifting a fraction of a centimeter close to his father's so that for the longest second their skin meets. 

Bela Talbot glances around, taking in the intense stare of the two men. The eyes of the elder seem to be begging her to pretend for his sibling and though usually she would bluntly tell them to prepare for the worst, this time she can see something in the green that makes her reconsider. She purses her lips a fraction, pushes a strand of hair back behind her ear and tells them quietly that they're trying all they can before turning on her heel.

"Sammy, go back to Jess. Go and sleep. I'll phone you if anything happens, okay?" Dean's voice comes out louder than wanted, and he feels like he's twelve years old again, telling a stubborn four-year-old version of Sam that he needs to go to bed because the film is over and it's getting late. "You heard the Doc. They're gonna make him better."

Dean can tell that Sam doesn't believe what his brother is saying, and he can't blame him because even as the words had left his mouth Dean knew they were nothing but an intricately designed web of lies.

He watches his brother leave, listening to the footsteps echo on the lineolium floor until they're gone - until Sam is gone - and then he feels his heart break as the machine cataloguing the rhythm of his father's heartbeat suddenly goes dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's funeral is a small affair with only six people; Dean, Sam, Bobby, Jess, Ellen and Jo. That's their family. They huddle together in silence under the darkening skyline in a field far from the prying eyes of the law, and they watch for almost two hours as the flames lick up the wooden structure of the pyre; the fire is a hungry devourer, which Sam thinks is oddly fitting for his Father, and it isn't long before John's body becomes the fuel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After days of saying "I'll write later" I finally got my arse in gear and got it done and dusted. Apparently I got rather carried away because I don't actually remember writing half this stuff? I think I was riding high on the fact I may have a job in a café myself after having my trial day there today! It's utterly hectic running something like I imagine Cas and Gabriel having, so their's is obviously a hella quieter than mine was... I'll never again doubt how difficult it is, though.
> 
> Anyway, on with chapter four! Please review or leave critiques so I can improve for the next chapter!

When Sam gets Dean's call he doesn't cry. When Sam gets Dean's call he simply tells his brother it will be alright because Dean has spent so many years repeating those words to him, and now Sam feels like it's his turn to say it, even if he doesn't believe it, to provide some sort of safety net for his brother to fall into. As the dial tone fills his ears, he sinks to the floor in the kitchenette and he buries his face in his hands. He doesn't feel the grief like he knows he should; there's no stabbing sensation like he can't breathe and there's no tears. He just feels numb, and that makes everything a thousand times worse, because he did love John despite the thousands of faults, he did! _So why_ , Sam asks himself, _is there nothing?_

He feels a hand on his chest, and the brush of hair against his cheek and while Jess doesn't speak, the tentative press of her lips to his jaw and the open concern etched across her features says more than she could have with words. Sam draws his knees up to his chest and puts his arm around her waist. In turn she rests her head on his shoulder and her hand on his hip. Dean finds them there when he stumbles in hours later, clutching a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, and he almost doesn't want to disturb them. But he needs the company more than breathing so he slots himself into the space between Sam and the fridge. He loops his fingers through his brothers', needing something to anchor him to the earth so he doesn't float away, because he is a balloon and the storm of emotions is just too much for him to handle alone. So they stay like that together, saying nothing, until one by one sleep claims their bodies.

Morning hardens upon the wall, throwing amber shadows across the three figures huddled up on the floor, resting against the cupboards that house various items of crockery and kitchen supplies. None of them had known that John's great going would alter all, that it would throw up another tornado to rip apart every shred of happiness that they had built up throughout the years. Even when all three have woken, none of them wants to move. Eventually Sam unthreads his fingers from Dean's silently and stands, brushing invisible lint from his trousers. Neither of the siblings say anything about the action, and eventually Jess stands too.

Nobody eats breakfast. They go through the movements, getting bowls and plates for cereal and toast, but their appetites are lost to the empty feeling that claws at their insides so they push away the breakfast blueprints to plan John's funeral. While it's something neither Sam nor Dean wants to do, it has to be done and they figure it's a case of the-sooner-the-better.

"Cremated," Dean says, quietly, because when Sam was eight and old enough to watch scary movies he had clutched tight to Dean's jacket and buried his face in his brother's shoulder to deal with his fear of zombies. Dean remembers promising him that none of their family would come back as the living dead - not if he could help it - and it's as though the memory is part of his skin. He feels obligated to keep that promise, even though his younger brother doesn't remember it now.

Sam nods softly and Jess places her hand on his shoulder. It's a gentle, and somewhat tentative motion, and Dean flinches inwardly because his brother has someone to help him through this and all Dean has is the arms of his sheets. He thinks fleetingly of Castiel, but it's shaken away quickly with a roll of his shoulders. He tells himself it's ridiculous, because Cas is just the guy behind the counter that takes his order and offers an ear, but that's just politeness, isn't it? That or another way to gain tips, he supposes. Sam smiles weakly at him, and Dean offers a tight-lipped nod before grabbing a pen and paper to write the plans down.

John's funeral is a small affair with only six people; Dean, Sam, Bobby, Jess, Ellen and Jo. That's their family. They huddle together in silence under the darkening skyline in a field far from the prying eyes of the law, and they watch for almost two hours as the flames lick up the wooden structure of the pyre; the fire is a hungry devourer, which Sam thinks is oddly fitting for his Father, and it isn't long before John's body becomes the fuel. When the flames have died and all proof of John's existence is memories and ashes, Dean lovingly gathers what is left - almost five gallons worth of embers, some of which are pure John and other parts just wood - into various containers which he packs carefully into the trunk of the Impala. Then Sam joins him in the front, and they drive. They drive for days without stopping for anything but gas or the bathroom; the two of them with their father for the first time in years. Dean cries once, silently, when he thinks Sam is sleeping. Sam just pretends not to hear, but something in his chest constricts and it takes all his effort not to say anything.

When they get to Lawrence they finally stop driving and stand still long enough to put John next to their mother, where they belong; where they have always belonged.

 

Castiel's calendar tells him that Dean has not been in for almost two weeks, the blank spaces watching him almost mockingly. He spends a lot of the time immersed in his work, letting the smell of coffee and the thrill of what he does coast him along until there's a lull in service which ultimately means he has time to think and everything unravels again.

"Do you suppose I did something wrong for Dean to leave, Gabriel?" Castiel asks softly when his brother delivers another batch of his infamous millionaire's shortbread, and their cousin Balthazar. "I do not think I did."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow and pops a brownie into his mouth. Castiel watches the way his jaw moves as he chews, imagining the bones and muscles it takes to make it work, waiting for him to speak. Balthazar laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Neither of the two men say anything, but the identical looks on their faces say _you're in way over your head, kid_.

"Cassie," Balthazar murmurs, touching a hand to the barista's knuckles gently. "You need to stop worrying about this customer. Here, let me tell you about this dream I had once." Castiel frowns and tips his head to the side, the two motions contrasting, but Balthazar takes it as consent and begins, talking animatedly, his voice carrying around the room.

Castiel can't help but chuckle when Balthazar tells him that in one dream he unsank the titanic ("Well, Cassie, you can't blame me! That film really is absolute bollocks and if anything I was saving the world from Celine Dion and that bloody awful song!"). This prompts a rendition from Gabriel, who sings it in a falsetto at the top of his lungs. He disturbs all the customers in the process; Balthazar sticks his fingers in his ears and hums as loud as he can. Castiel just apologies profusely to everybody in the shop for his brother and cousin's behaviour, and sits with his head in his hands. He pretends to be angry for the sake of the clientele who haven't joined in, but Cas doesn't really mind because it's thanks to Balthazar and his investments that he and Gabriel even have a place to disrupt their patrons.

"It's a wonder anybody buys your novels," the youngest of them murmurs, pouring another mug of tea for the man in a crisp suit occupying table twelve, who is staring rather pointedly at them, "if all you can come up with is yourself as an angel unsinking a ship."

Balthazar stays for a night, but he's quiter than before and spends his time holed up in one corner, scratching away at his moleskin with a pen. Castiel continues worrying about his friend, making mug after mug of his usual order every two hours just in case.

When Dean next drags himself through the door only a few days later it's just before closing time, and he's not alone. Castiel's eyes widen, taking in the crumpled clothes and dirty face, and more importantly the lanky man dressed in a checkered shirt who follows Dean. He makes the younger man's order without thinking, his fingers moving quickly and he hides the other mug, the stone-cold one he made hours ago, behind the till before he carries the cup and saucer over.

Dean looks up as he approaches, green eyes locking with blue and it's strange; they don't need speak with words in that moment because words are too heavy or too inadequate, and they can't use touches because touches are too much and they don't know each other well enough yet and what if they are unable to let go? So Dean uses his eyes to communicate the grief and to seek stability, and Castiel knows immediately that something is wrong so he lets his customer, his friend, find solace within the gaze. He lets Dean find some small place that he can be safe and understood.

The taller man clears his throat and Castiel blinks, breaking the unspoken communication between Dean. "Seeing as you already know my brother's order, can I get a half-caf double vanilla latte?"

"You said you wanted to meet him," Dean says as means of explanation and Castiel blinks, tipping his head to the left to survey Sam. His head is inundated with one thought, which is ' _they do not look like brothers_ '. He tries to remember that the thought is not one to voice, because sometimes he slips up and forgets, and scribbles the order down on his notepad before turning with a small smile.

"You told him about me?" He hears Sam ask, his voice rising a little hysterically. Castiel thinks it's probably something to do with the purple smudges under the man's eyes. "You told a complete stranger about me?"

"Cas is different, Sammy." There's a pause in which Dean takes a swig of his americano, and the barista almost misses the next sentence because Dean's voice drops to something just above a whisper.

"I trust him."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's how, at nearly 10pm, Dean ends up pressed up against Castiel's back, arms looped about him, fumbling for the elusive house keys in the front of his friend's apron. He feels almost like he's at the arcade, working a grabber machine. He never had the patience for those either. Castiel stays stock still, memorizing the feel of Dean's breath on his neck as he huffs it out angrily, and he tries not to laugh at the ridiculous situation they're in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not... much to say really. Like all the other chapters, I can't remember where this came from or if it makes sense, but I hope you enjoy the update and that it was worth the wait! Hopefully I'll have another chapter for you all within the next week or so, but I might not be as fast due to increasing amounts of work for my A2 courses. 
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism are really helpful!

Apparently Dean's trust in the barista is shocking, because Sam's eyes widen and his mouth falls open. Castiel bites his lip and frowns, wondering if he has accidentally caused a rift between two brothers just by existing because it wouldn't be the first time. When he was in his teens Gabriel had fought with Michael over Castiel's right to date whomever he wanted. The younger of the two boys _had_ been winning, until Michael had reverted to violence to reiterate his point. Gabriel took a trip to the emergency room for his pains, and Castiel never mentioned partners, potential or otherwise, at dinner again. Now, though, he makes himself busy behind the counter, humming under his breath as he prepares Sam's drink.

He hears Dean speaking, his voice low and rough, and Castiel is overwhelmed by the urge to press his closed mouth to the hollow of Dean's throat just so he can feel the vibrations against his lips. He wants to pull down the walls that the younger man has built up and wear the rocks that make its foundations down like the waves that kiss the shoreline relentlessly, smoothing away the edges that are sharp enough to cut. Castiel doesn't know what has happened, but he knows it must be big, and bad, and scary, because he knows the look on both men's faces intimately; he had used the same mask when he was eleven and his mother died, carving a smile through the layers of pain so that people couldn't see just how broken he really was. To see the same look on his friend's face nearly breaks him all over again.

Castiel lets his thoughts wander as he works, his hands moving quickly with calculated precision, deciding that the conversation Dean and Sam are having around the corner is private; he has always struggled understanding body language and personal space, but their hunched shoulders and whispered words are something even Castiel can read. He waits until there's a lull in the conversation before he crosses the canyon of the café floor, fingers gripping the mug carefully. The scent of vanilla and coffee engulfs him and he takes a breath, pulling the sweetened air in through his mouth. He sets the cup down in front of Sam, wipes his fingers on the front of his apron, and is about to leave when Dean catches his wrist.

Castiel blinks, the skin beneath the pads of Dean's fingers burning and he looks down into the expanse of green that stares back up at him. Sam tips his head to the side, indicating the spare chair, and after a moment of thought the barista sinks down into it slowly, feeling ever-so-slightly trapped in the space between the two brothers. He's busy thinking about the last time he was caught in the middle of two siblings when Dean speaks and he's jerked back to reality.

"I'm sorry I haven't been in here for so long, Cas," he says, withdrawing his hand to idly run his thumb in circles along the rim of his coffee cup. Castiel thinks absently of the calendar he has upstairs, little 'D's missing for gaps of seven at a time. Sam sips at his drink and makes a soft pleased noise at the taste. Dean ignores him, draws a deep breath and continues. "Our Dad died."

Castiel feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him because he's been there, he's felt that, and he lurches forward a little, grabbing at Dean's forearm. His grip is too tight - tight enough to leave cresent moons where his nails dig in - and the silence drags on for an age. Castiel struggles with what to say to make the anguish in Dean's eyes go away. His voice is barely a whisper when he talks. "I'm sorry." He realises he's apologising both for their loss, and for the death-grip he has on his friend's arm so he releases Dean, fixing the one injury that he has caused.

Sam puts his cup down on the saucer and smiles weakly, spreading his hands out on the table. His palms face upwards to the gods, sleeves rucking up a little to reveal a bracelet adorned with the saints and Castiel can see that Sam is someone who believes in a creator, that he someone who bows his head every night before he sleeps and just prays that nothing else will come for his family and friends. Dean has told him enough about their losses for him to know that the brothers haven't got many people left; Castiel doesn't know how Sam could possibly believe in a God after all he's been through, but he supposes everybody needs something to cling to to keep them afloat.

A shrill ring cuts through the silence and Dean winces slightly. Sam digs around in his pocket and pulls out his phone, flipping it open to read the neat rows of text and the double diagonal lines that form x's. "Jess wants to know when we'll be home," He tells his brother, and Dean digs in his own pocket.

"Go, Sammy. If I let you take my baby, you gotta swear you won't harm her," Sam gives him an incredulous look and Dean sighs. "I want to stay a little longer," he says. The keys to the Impala swing from his fingertips. Sam takes them carefully, lets a $5 dollar bill flutter onto the table-top, and is gone in a jumble of plaid shirt, ridiculous hair and long limbs, giving a small smile as he pushes the door open and steps into the darkness.

As soon as he's out of the door, Dean slumps forward a little, resting his head in his hands. Castiel sits there awkwardly, his head tilted to the side, waiting patiently for his friend to start talking. He has, from previous experience, learnt that it always takes Dean a little while to mine deep enough to find the courage to open up, so he hums softly under his breath and stands, picking up Sam's abandoned empties and flipping the sign adorning the door to 'closed' before returning to his station behind the counter in order to start washing up. 

"We are technically closed now, Dean," Castiel murmurs apologetically. He stops for a minute, hands wrist deep in warm water, and bites his lip in thought. "Although if you are unfinished, you could always bring your drink upstairs to my residence, if that is an amiable suggestion. I can guarantee that my sofa is more comfortable than the chairs here." 

Dean bites his lip in thought, and glowers at the dregs of coffee in his cup. "If I can get a refill I'd like that, Cas."

Castiel hums softly as he bustles around, and Dean finds himself oddly fascinated by the motions that the elder man goes through, making mental notes on the way Castiel's brow smooths and the way he rolls his shoulders as he works. When he was a young boy, and his mother raised him on stories of angels, Dean had liked imagining that people had wings. He used to pretend to see them and would try to touch them but they were always just out of reach of his fingers, slipping through the spaces like sand. It had, of course, all stopped when he reached 2nd grade and the other kids made fun of him. It had helped him realise later that the only angel he'd ever really known was his mother, though, and he doesn't even remember what they said now. The ripple of his friend's shoulder blades as he moves brings all the feelings back and it hits Dean like hard because he can almost see the wings Castiel would have - if angels were real - unfold before his eyes; they're brown like the barista's hair, but smaller than others. Dean presses a hand to his forehead and tells himself it's the grief and sleep deprivation talking. He's been telling himself that a lot lately.

When he opens his eyes there's no wings. There is just Castiel, who has his head tilted in confusion, studying Dean like a textbook, confusion flashing his features. "Perhaps I should carry your coffee," he says, frowning a little and tightening his grip on the handle of the mug before picking up his own and starting through the back room. "Come along, Dean. It is just up here."

Dean follows slowly, without question, and Castiel presses the line of his lips into a quiet smile before they start up the stairs. Dean lets his fingertips graze the banister so that, if need be, he has some way of catching himself if he loses his footing. It hasn't happened yet, but him wants to make sure that at least Sammy has him left when everyone else is gone, because he swore he'd always be there and that is one promise he refuses to break. The barista makes a faint noise in complaint as they get to a small landing area. It's only just big enough for the two men, and he rolls his shoulders again almost imperceptably. "My keys are in my apron pocket," Castiel murmurs, and cocks an eyebrow in Dean's direction, waiting for a response. When he doesn't get one, he sighs. "Both my hands are full."

That's how, at nearly 10pm, Dean ends up pressed up against Castiel's back, arms looped about him, fumbling for the elusive house keys in the front of his friend's apron. He feels almost like he's at the arcade, working a grabber machine. He never had the patience for those either. Castiel stays stock still, memorizing the feel of Dean's breath on his neck as he huffs it out angrily, and he tries not to laugh at the ridiculous situation they're in. When eventually the angry noises subside into a soft chuckle, Castiel turns his head to see Dean dangling the keys with look that tells him he's an idiot. The gash of his mouth is pulled upwards into a smile though, and Castiel's eyes soften. "It is nice when you laugh, Dean," he says, shifting as much as he can to pass the other man a mug in exchange for their hard won prize. 

Dean doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he shoves the elder man a little. "While we're still young and our coffee's still hot, Cas."

It takes Castiel a few minutes to unlock the door, but when he's done it swings open and Dean finds himself looking into a decently sized living room. Two high-backed armchairs sit side by side with a not-quite matching sofa opposite. A dark wood coffee table seperates the pieces of furniture and Dean sits on the latter, his eyes widening at the vast volume of books slotted neatly into shelves on the wall. Castiel passes him his mug carefully, and Dean breathes in heavily, his heart thudding gently because for the first time in several years the beat in his chest seems to say "home".


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has never been a good cook, and both of the two eggs Castiel assigns him to crack end up in the bowl along with a fair amount of their shell. His friend shakes his head and Dean decides it is probably best to perch himself on the counter top, away from the cooking, as Castiel works. It reminds him of when he was younger, and his Mom would sit him up on the kitchen table as she made him breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. He would sing 'Hey Jude' softly to her, but only the chorus over and over because the rest of it was her part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, this update was a long time coming, and I apologise deeply for that. I haven't been in the best place since my partner of four months broke up with me, though, so I hope you can understand why. It's about 300 words shorter than my previous five chapters but my head has been all over the place, so it was never going to be perfect. I'll make up for it next chapter, I swear.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the sixth installment. As always, critiques and comments are greatly appreciated!

Castiel doesn't sit down, instead choosing to watch Dean with wide eyes, fiddling with the hem of his apron as his friend drinks. "Would you like anything to eat, Dean?" He murmurs, motioning idly to the kitchen in an attempt to stop his voice from shaking. He isn't sure if it's working. "I am not that great a cook and I have limited stock, but I know how to make enough basic meals to sustain myself, and therefore any company I might have."

Dean frowns at him a little, his brow knitting together as he looks up at the barista from over the rim of his cup. "Only if I can help," he says, slowly, chewing over the words experimentally before letting them out from the cage of his mouth. "I'm not worth the trouble though, really Cas." He takes another sip of the coffee, letting it soothe him as it cascades down his throat. The barista simply shakes his head and waves away the words as if they're flies, setting his own mug down on the table. As he walks, Castiel pulls the apron off over his head, his shirt rucking up a little, and Dean finds himself staring at the sliver of skin. He tries to shake the image from his head.

"I only have enough to make scrambled egg," Castiel calls from the other room, "Or omelette, if you are feeling more adventurous." Dean can hear the smile in his friend's voice, and he can't control the way his own lips quirk upwards.

"Scrambled egg," he replies, draining the rest of his coffee before joining the elder man in the kitchen. Dean has never been a good cook, and both of the two eggs Castiel assigns him to crack end up in the bowl along with a fair amount of their shell. His friend shakes his head and Dean decides it is probably best to perch himself on the counter top, away from the cooking, as Castiel works. It reminds him of when he was younger, and his Mom would sit him up on the kitchen table as she made him breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. He would sing 'Hey Jude' softly to her, but only the chorus over and over because the rest of it was her part. Eventually boredom would take over, but then he would clamber down and wrap doughy arms around her leg, and she would ruffle his hair with a smile. Dean feels a tug at his heart, and he slips down from the granite surface. He can't help it, but he needs to be close to someone, so much closer, and for the second time that evening he finds himself pressed up against Castiel's back, burying his face in the space between his shoulder blades and just breathing. Something about it seems good, and natural, and right.

His friend says nothing, simply continuing with what he's doing. He can feel Dean humming something, the vibrations soft, and his breath catches a little when hands come around his waist to hold onto the counter top.

"It's okay, Dean," Castiel murmurs after a while, grinding pepper into the whisked eggs. Since he's pressed against the granite and Dean's back, he can't do much else so he waits, counting the heartbeats it takes for his companion to release him but when it gets to it and Dean peels himself away from Castiel, it feels as though the barista is missing something all over again.

Neither of them speak about it; Dean goes back to leaning against the counter as Castiel spoons scrambled egg onto a plate, continuing to hum under his breath until he finds the food in his hands. He follows Castiel back into the living room, reclaiming his previous place on the sofa and waits for his companion to take the seat next to him. Castiel notes that Dean doesn't use furniture like normal people; the mechanic is sprawled out, limbs askew as he shovels forkfuls of food from the plate balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa into his mouth. Some of it escapes before he can wrap his lips around it, landing on his lap, and Castiel presses a hand to his mouth to contain his laughter.

The barista sits up straight, hands folded in his lap as he waits for Dean to finish eating, continuing to stare intently at him. He can't explain why, but he wants to know every aspect of this man; he wants to make a home in the dips and grooves of his skin, so that there is somewhere that he will always belong - somewhere that he will always be safe. Castiel wants to completely dissect Dean, like the animals Lucifer used to spend hours hunched over, making neat incisions through layers of fur, and muscle, and sinew to document its insides. Cas thinks he would be a lot more delicate. Unlike Lucifer who did it with no real reason save boredom and spite, Castiel wants learn every indentation off by heart, map out the planes of Dean's body with the palms of his hands and learn the network of veins that pump blood through his body. He wonders briefly if that's normal, and shrugs.

Dean finishes his food quickly, cramming it into his mouth as if he hasn't eaten in days. Castiel concludes that he probably hasn't, judging by the state of him.

"My Mother died after giving birth to me. Gabriel told me that it was as if her life bled into my body with her final breath," the elder of the two says quietly, deciding to take the lead on the conversation, hoping that Dean will share his own story later. "Nobody in the family says it, but everyone knows that I'm the reason our father left; he lost his wife and gained the child that killed her." A mirthless laugh bubbles up from his chest, faster than Castiel can suppress it. "Michael resented me, Lucifer was running wild and Gabriel was too reckless to look after me so Annael, my sister, raised me."

Dean turns his head a fraction to look at Castiel, his mouth pulled down as he listens to the barista's voice. "Anna was wonderful, but she had to leave for college and then a job; she had such high ambitions and she did everything to meet them. I admire her for that. I do not see her much now, though, and every time I see a woman with flowing red hair I have to stop myself from reaching out to catch her wrist or calling her name."

Castiel closes his eyes, memories burning fresh in his mind. His fingers curl tighter into his shirt, and his brow furrows as he continues. "When she left, things went downhill. Lucifer and Michael fought bitterly over who was in charge, and Gabriel and I simply could not deal with it, so we took it upon ourselves to escape. That's how we started up Angelic." He tips his head downwards, motioning to the world he and Gabriel have built slowly through hundreds of thousands of coffee beans and grains of sugar and pastries.

"My Mom died in a fire when I was eight years old. It nearly got Sammy too." Suddenly Dean can feel the heat of the flames licking across his cheeks, smell the smoke curling around him. The weight of his brother's body in his arms is almost tangible, and a tremor climbs his spine. He angles his body a little closer to Castiel, needing something more to anchor him here and now instead of that night all those years ago. "Dad joined the army to deal with his grief. I don't blame him, but it means I ended up raising Sam myself, sorta like Anna did you."

Dean can feel Castiel's eyes watching him, but he doesn't look back; he ploughs on, determined to get through it all. "He's been home for a couple of years now. We were getting used to having our Dad around more, and then he..." Dean chokes back a sob, biting hard into the skin of his lip. He feels a warm, comforting weight in his hand, and he realises that Castiel has joined them together; the spaces between his fingers seem to be where the barista's belong, and Dean finds himself squeezing tightly.

Castiel tugs the younger man closer, twisting his body so that they're sat face to face, hands entwined, blue eyes searching green. They're almost nose to nose, and Castiel tips his head upwards at the same instant Dean tips his down; it's no more than a barely-there brush of lips. It's really more of the two men exchanging breath, the swirls of it mixing together. Then Dean surges forward, closing the gap between them.

When they pull away, Castiel presses his nose to the mechanic's brow. He marvels at the way the inward slope seems to mimic the curve of Dean's forehead, fitting them together like jigsaw pieces, as if they're supposed to. He feels palms running over his shoulder blades, presses of fingers. Warmth bleeds through the layers of clothing to his skin, _through_ his skin, touching raw nerves, and he can hear the younger man murmuring softly.

"Did you know that your shoulder blades are where you used to have wings before you fell from heaven as Angels to Earth?" Dean says slowly, chewing his words, and Castiel feels himself falling deeper down the rabbit hole.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, is that him?" Gabriel asks, settling himself cross legged into one of the high backed armchairs, and he raises an eyebrow. Castiel nods once, picking absently at the bitten skin around one of his thumbs. The elder rolls his eyes but there's the soft hint of a smile across his lips.  
> "How many freakin' freckles has the guy got?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in this chapter - my Grandma had a stroke and some other junk happened (e.g procrastination, hatred of everything I write, not knowing where I was going with this) and I was waylaid in my update. But it's here now, and I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone keeping up with this, and leaving me comments and kudos - it's you guys that inspire me to keep going, so it means more to me than I can articulate.

The two men hold onto each other as if letting go would mean falling apart, refusing to move. Castiel listens to Dean's breathing, feels the rise and fall of his chest and the tiny puffs of air that ghost over his skin when the younger man exhales. It reminds him of the way Anna's fingers used to move across the column of his neck and the counter of his shoulders when she cut his hair all those moons ago. Castiel smiles brokenly as Dean slowly slips fingers out of his and pulls back. They stare at each other for the longest time, communicating all their grief with a single glance, silently promising to help build the foundations of their broken lives back together.

That's how Gabriel finds them when he lets himself in, arms laden with stacked boxes of pastries.

"Honey, I'm home!" He warbles in a falsetto, before he notices the hunched figures on the sofa. When the younger man jumps and stares at him like a deer caught in headlights, Gabriel catches a flash of freckles, and green eyes, and he mentally curses, face crumpling apologetically. If it were anyone else, the pastry chef wouldn't bother feeling bad, but Castiel is not anyone else - he is Gabriel's younger brother - and though admitting it is something he rarely does, the elder Novak loves him.

Castiel says something in a hushed tone that Gabriel doesn't quite catch, his fingertips flitting over the man's knee, calling back his attention, and they go back to staring at one another wordlessly. Gabriel thinks it looks almost as if they're stranded in an ocean of sand that stretches for miles every way, and each of them is the other's water. It's a more abstract thought than the ones he's used to, but he takes the intent staring as an opportunity to escape to the kitchen, crossing the desert of the living room where they sit to safety.

He sets the boxes down as quickly and carefully as he can without dropping them so that he can take his leave and get out of his brother's hair as soon as possible. Plucking a pen from his pocket, he rips a post-it note from the pad Castiel leaves around, and ignores the list that details what his brother needs to buy (flour, apples, sugar; Gabriel figures he's making another pie) before scrawling a brief note in his chicken scratch. Turning to make the journey back across the lonely dunes of the floorboards in the lounge to give Castiel and his guest some alone time, he notices that his brother's mystery man has gone, but he can hear the water running.

"So, is that him?" Gabriel asks, settling himself cross legged into one of the high backed armchairs, and he raises an eyebrow. Castiel nods once, picking absently at the bitten skin around one of his thumbs. The elder rolls his eyes but there's the soft hint of a smile across his lips.

"How many freakin' freckles has the guy got?" Gabriel asks before pausing for a beat. Whilst his sibling is silent, Castiel makes a mental note to count the soft brown flecks that litter Dean's face and report back with a figure. When he looks up brown eyes glint mischievously, and the elder Novak brother leans forward conspiratorially before continuing. "Bet you twenty-five bucks they're everywhere." Castiel answers by flushing beet red. He wishes the sofa would swallow him down into the cushioned depths between the seats, just like it does their loose change or TV remotes, but alas he stays where he is.

He hears Gabriel ask what _his_ name is, and Castiel finds himself thinking back to the last time he had a conversation like this. It'd been him, flanked on either side by Gabriel and Balthazar. Michael's voice had been low and dangerous when he found out his youngest sibling was breaking an unspoken rule. Gabriel's nose cracked as he stepped in front of the alabaster fist making a beeline towards his brother's face. The blood had been a runlet trickling down the smooth expanse of skin, pooling in the space where top lip met bottom before it broke free and ran down his chin to the floor. When he staggered backwards, out of the way, another fist came flying; Castiel had ended up with a purpling bruise colouring his eye socket and the sound of Gabriel's blood dripping onto the kitchen tiles.

"Dean," the younger man responds brokenly. The name is a prayer in the dark and dead of night, a soft whisper falling from his mouth that saves him a thousand times over.

When the barista looks up, there is a thin smile stretched across Gabriel's face, and his brother's eyes are soft. For once there is no smart-alec comment; there is just earnest honesty. "Dean, huh?" The baker murmurs, sweeping a hand through his hair and flashing a smile across the room. "Tell me about him?"

Castiel doesn't quite realise just how much he's been holding in - how much information he knows - until he starts to talk, and it bubbles up from his chest, spilling out like a waterfall. "His father was in the army and passed away a few weeks ago in a car crash, and his mother died in a fire. He works as both a mechanic and a bartender and he has a brother called Sam who is studying law at Stanford university. His two jobs are to pay to put him through college, and he has been looking after Sam from a young age - like Anna did us. His eyes are green like the forests in Scandinavia, and he likes rock music and his car, which he tells me is a 1967 Chevrolet Impala but if I am perfectly honest it looks to me like any other car. He would probably kill me for that." Taking a breath, Castiel worries his lip a little and closes his eyes. It feels as though his heart is going to beat out from the milky cage of his ribs. "His smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds and his laughter is even more so. His mouth is soft and firm, and foreign and familiar all at once and when he looks at me it feels as though he's stolen the breath from my chest."

Gabriel stares at him, blinking evenly for a few beats, and his smile climbs a peg or two before he reaches over to the table and plucks a cherry from a bowl. He chews thoughtfully before spitting the stone at his brother with a mischievous wink. "Odds are he can't tie cherry stalk knots with only his mouth like your dear old bro."

That's how Dean finds the two older men, sat together with a bowl of cherries, when he returns from the shower with a clean T-shirt, a pair of Castiel's never-before-worn jogging bottoms hanging from his hips. He frowns a little as he watches Gabriel pluck the stalks off the fruit and pop them in his mouth, one by one, only to pull them back out with perfect knots in the center. Castiel struggles with it a little more, his face creased as he frowns in concentration, but eventually he succeeds. Dean chuckles at the combination of pleasure and pride that spreads across the barista's face at his achievement, and everything seems lighter.

Castiel motions him over noiselessly, and Dean starts towards him, wanting nothing more than to be back by his companion's side, before the clock catches his eye and he realises he's left Sam waiting and worrying alone when he's dealing with the same thing. "I have to go." The words come out a little harsher than intended, and the mechanic winces before he adjusts his tone. "Thank you, Cas. For helping."

 _Helping is an understatement_ , Dean thinks tenderly as Castiel replies by gently writing his phone number in neat script across the strip of his wrist, on the line of his pulse-point and Dean returns the favour on Castiel's hand. _Helping is the biggest understatement for somebody who has finally turned everything right side up._

The barista watches him, his lips quirking upwards tentatively. He's painfully aware of Gabriel's presence at his side, and he swallows hard as he thinks about how all he wants to do is kiss Dean again; to pull him close so that they're wrapped around each other. Castiel doesn't think Dean is that kind of man, though. Sitting holding tight to one another as though they could save each other was because the mechanic had been upset, and the kiss was... He doesn't know what the kiss was, really, but Dean Winchester doesn't seem the type to press feather light touches against another person's mouth or wrap them in an embrace, no matter if male, female, or anything inbetween. Castiel imagines that he would be rough in his affections; tumultuous waves of teeth and tongue and purpling smudges that stand out on skin with the claim of 'mine'. Gabriel raises an eyebrow and pops another cherry into his mouth.

"I should go," Dean says again, and Castiel wonders if his brother can hear the same reluctance colouring the words as he does, or whether it's imagined. Unfolding himself from the sofa, legs slipping out from beneath his body, he rises. The two men walk side by side as they descend the mountain-top perch of the Novak brothers' household to the now-deserted terrain of Angelic. Castiel's fingers brush over his companion's knuckles gently - a faint, barely there touch of skin that's gone before Dean can really register it. He finds himself craving more.

The coffee shop looks almost like a ghost town in the swathes of light the moon throws through the bay windows; chairs that held customers tenderly only a few hours before seem as vast as the deserts, and without the thrum of chatter and machinery their footsteps echo on the floor. Dean shivers slightly.

"It's the customers that bring life here," Castiel murmurs. "They spread joy and warmth into the furthest corners of Angelic." The moonlight touches his face harshly, her silvery fingertips drawing arcs across the lines and grooves of the barista's face. Eyes that speak of honesty in the light look tired, and Dean finds himself inexplicably drawing closer.

"What about you, Cas?" The words are quiet but curious. Dean wavers for a minute, unsure if he has overstepped the line (although if he's honest, they jumped the line together when their lips met) but then Castiel answers, and he knows he hasn't pushed the boundaries yet.

"In turn, I am brought to life by this place. Gabriel and I built it, loved it, and shaped it; in return, it did the same to us."

The mechanic takes a step forward. Castiel stays where he is, so Dean keeps moving until they're centimetres from each other. Every footstep he takes is tentative and well-thought through because Dean is a hunter, and Castiel the wide, doe-eyed deer in the headlights; one false move could send him scurrying away back into his world of coffee cups,  _would-you-like-milk-or-sugar-with-that?_ sandsmiles behind the counter, leaving Dean alone with the haunting darkness of the coffee shop after hours.

"Maybe someone else can bring you those things too," Dean responds, and he dips his head and brings their mouths together again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean falters for a minute, his heart sinking, and he stumbles backwards, needing to get out of the room to the safety of his unmade bed. He'd forgotten that the younger man would fly the roost again, that his nesting here was not permanent, and in the arms of his duvet he panics because Sammy is like a limb and for the first few weeks after he's gone Dean will forget how to be himself without his brother there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cripes, I'm sorry this one took longer to update.... I really have no excuse other than procrastination but to make up for it it's longer than previous chapters? Hopefully it's worth the wait, and I offer it to you now with the explanation that I'm going away for the next two weeks and I don't know if I'll be able to update on the go from there. 
> 
> If you have the time and patience to leave a comment, I always greatly appreciate your feedback and critique so I can improve upon it for the following chapters.
> 
> Anyway; here we go!

Dean gets in later than he had anticipated; His bones are weary from the day but his blood sings with bitter-sweet coffee and the heat of Castiel's kisses in the moon-streaked café. Glancing around he catches sight of Sam folded up on the sofa, his long limbs bent at impossible angles so as to fit himself onto the cheap furniture which is nowhere near big enough to accommodate his height. He looks peaceful, for once, and Dean silently asks Gods he doesn't believe in - can't bring himself to believe in - why they couldn't have slipped hatred and loss underneath another door and offered street-corner handouts on heartache to someone else as they walked past.

The younger Winchester stirs in his sleep, burying his face further into the couch cushions whilst his hands clench and unclench, and it suddenly hits Dean that Sam fell asleep waiting for him to get back. It reminds him of days long gone, where a younger Dean would go out to get dinner for Sam because it was easier than cooking, which in his experience involved burning everything and having to explain to Sammy that he _wasn't good at multi-tasking and making things damn it!_ He would get distracted by the diner staff, women with warm faces and tender eyes who would trail fingers over the curve of his hand as they passed him his order. Sometimes, they'd write their numbers on napkins and sometimes they'd invite him to stick around until their shift ended. He never called any of them, instead dropping the crumpled paper into bins outside motels, but when they invited him out back, Dean was helpless. There was something about the feel of someone solid beneath him - someone warm and caring and there - that he couldn't deny because the curves and softness were just so different from the harshness that he and Sammy dealt with. They would trade breaths and purpling smudges and biting kisses that drew blood from Dean's lips, until he remembered that his brother was at home waiting and he had to go. He'd always kick himself when he returned back to Sam sprawled out asleep, tired from waiting, to wake him with another batch of microwave-warmed food and another 15 reasons on Dean's own why-I'm-not-good-enough list.

Now, though, Dean doesn't wake Sam with lukewarm fries and questionable meat; he simply pulls a blanket from the back of the sofa and wraps it around the gigantor, tucking his sibling up like his mother did him before the world snatched her away. He hovers over Sam for a while, protectiveness still etched into his bones from years of practice, and remembers that in a day's time Sam and Jess begin their journey back to Stanford, back to another world without him.

Dean falters for a minute, his heart sinking, and he stumbles backwards, needing to get out of the room to the safety of his unmade bed. He'd forgotten that the younger man would fly the roost again, that his nesting here was not permanent, and in the arms of his duvet he panics because Sammy is like a limb and for the first few weeks after he's gone Dean will forget how to be himself without his brother there.

Eventually he falls asleep to the static sound of worry and fear, and a voice in his head whispering 'alone, alone, alone' with every breath he takes.

When his alarm buzzes at 7am, the elder Winchester curses. He doesn't remember setting it for that goddamn early, especially since today is the one day the Salvage Yard is closed and he's free from work obligations until the evening, but he wrestles his way from the cocoon of bedding out into the bright sunlight that's painting dapples across his floorboards and wall. After a few minutes adjusting, he struggles into clothes and hauls his body to the kitchen.

Sam is still on the sofa, snoring lightly, and Dean is overcome with the urge to make their last day together a good one. He pulls ingredients from the fridge, quietly confident that he can rustle up something good because after all, his cooking abilities have come on leaps and bounds. He isn't the best cook, but Dean Winchester now knows how to make things his younger self would only have dreamed of, if only so as to stop letting Sammy down on his back-alley diner dinner trips.

It doesn't go exactly according to plan, and Sam wakes to the sound of expletives and singed flesh, but when he's roused himself enough to pad into the kitchen, he finds three stacks of blueberry pancakes (technically two stacks of blueberry pancakes, and one stack lathered in syrup), Jess, and an expectant older brother who is trying hard to play it cool.

"Morning," Dean murmurs, pushing the palm of his hand under the stream of water bursting from the tap. He angles his body a little, twisting his head to watch the couple gathered at the breakfast bar, and tries to imagine mornings without them. It hurts. "I figured since you're leaving this evening, we could all go do something together today?"

Jess nods enthusiastically, her curls bouncing as she presses a mouthful of food into her mouth and makes a soft pleased noise. Beside her, a gentle pink spreads across Sam's cheeks and Dean knows he's thinking about the last time he heard that noise. Hell, after Sam's initial do-I-don't-I dance during the final years of high school, the couple have been inseparable, so the younger man probably remembers every noise Jess has made with their bodies in tandem, and knows each thing she has said off by heart, because they're still as smitten as the day they started dating.

"There's a zoo around here, I've seen signs!" She says when she's finished swallowing her mouthful. Her voice is laden with enthusiasm, and she smiles brightly. Dean grimaces a little but Sam nods just as happily, popping a blueberry into the caven of his mouth. "It's called Great Plains? It has a museum too, and I think it started with a D.... maybe an S."

Those are pretty different," Sam deadpans, his face blank save a slight twitch of his lips, and Jess shakes her head, eyes wide with laughter that hasn't yet reached her lips. It's obvious she knows what he's going to say. "I mean, not knowing if a person said 'dick' or 'sick' can really screw up a conversation."

She giggles, the sound pealing bells that dip and intertwine with Sam's low chuckle. Dean feels more out of place in his brother's life than ever because he's not part of these private moments between the two students. He hasn't read whatever web comic they're apparently quoting so he doesn't get it, and that stings. It's not that Dean isn't glad his brother has found someone to cherish, it's that before Sam found college it had just been them - Sam and Dean, the Winchester Brothers against the world! - and suddenly it's not.

"Great Plains it is, then," Dean replies, pushing the thoughts aside to shovel in another mouthful of pancakes. The syrup drips from the fork, a golden spun drop of sunshine that drags out and runs down Dean's chin. He wipes at it with the heel of his hand and smiles as cheerily as he can manage. "Ellen will want to say goodbye and I'm on shift at The Roadhouse, so how about we grab Bobby and some drinks there later?"

There's a rumble of agreement from across the island and as the words tumble from his lips Dean feels like he's free-falling into a black abyss with nobody there to catch him. He wonders briefly if the separation is as hard for Sam as it is him, but he doubts it. They grew up together, sure, and even though Dean was the one with responsibilities, he ended up needing Sammy more than the younger needed him; Even when there were other options or opportunities, he would always come back to his brother like a moth to a flame. He knows the co-dependancy isn't healthy, but Sam was all that Dean had had years before Bobby had housed them under his roof and inside his heart. They had been completely alone until Robert Singer found out that John Winchester's boys were sleeping out of the Impala or in cramped motel rooms they paid for with Dean's old college funds, credit card scams, and calls from women after a good time that the elder received in the dead of night. Bobby had offered them a home and enrolled Sam in school. He'd given the elder Winchester a job and he had doled out praise, and Sam and Dean bottled the words. They hoarded them like greedy smugglers, throwing open the doors of their chests to place them on shelves next to the pulsating muscle that pumped liquid life around their tangled mazes of spider-web veins. Robert Singer was the father figure John Winchester should have been.

Sometimes he misses the comfortable quietness of Bobby's house - misses having the company of the old man, even when he complains - and though he knows he's welcome there, Dean wants to live off his own back, just like he has always done. The burn on the palm of his hand stings as he presses at it, and the pain distracts him from his thoughts as his guests take their leave to both dress and round up any stray items not yet ushered into suitcases. Dean simply flips the radio on and sets to work washing and drying plates, the warm water, repeated motions and AC/DC's chords soothing him as he goes. It occurs to him only a few minutes later that he's in danger of washing away the precious black digits adorning his wrist so he stops, dries his hands, and saves them into both the SIM card and his life.

It lifts Dean's spirits a little, because he knows he has one friend (Is that even what Cas is? He wonders, running a soapy hand through his hair) even when Sam has left.

'Would you like to get coffee sometime?' Dean types, hitting send. He knows Castiel is working and has no time to reply so he tucks the cell phone back into the fabric cage of his trouser pocket and continues to slowly wash the plates, time seeming to stop as he loses himself to the slosh of water and the feel of suds on his skin. While it doesn't seem likely, Dean likes washing plates; it reminds him that he has a kitchen, and a home, and a new life away from the past one. While most people would complain about the every day tasks, they're the ones Dean appreciates. He supposes it's the little things.

When Jess returns, Dean is halfway through a particularly boisterous sing-along of Back In Black, drying plates as he sashays his hips in time to the music. She coughs, once, leaning against the counter top, biting the ribbon of her bottom lip and Dean jumps, spinning on his heel.

"When we go, promise me you'll phone him more often." The words are rushed, and Jess looks down, scuffing the toe of her shoe along the fake wooden flooring. She looks vulnerable and worried, like she doesn't know if what she's doing is right, and the jealousy at their earlier in-joke dissipates into a rush of affection, a warm feeling that spreads along his nerve endings.

The elder Winchester had liked Jessica Moore from the moment Sam brought her home to meet his family; she had turned up in a Sunday best dress and talked avidly about her Grandfather teaching her basic mechanics, and how to shoot, and she had held Sam's hand above the table. It had been obvious she cared for him just as much as Dean and Bobby. "He misses you more than he lets on, Dean."

The man nods, crossing the floor to her. "I will, Jess," he promises, his own voice rough with emotion that he can't (won't) let out. Instead he tucks two fingers under her chin to tip her head upwards and smiles, eyes locked on hers. "I promise."

She draws away, and Dean lets her because Jess is like a butterfly on the breeze, and she will always flit high above Dean's head, on the wing with Sammy. Dean closes his hand around the smooth brass amulet his brother bought him so many Christmases back. Sam had wrapped it in newspaper and presented it proudly to Dean with the promise that it would protect him wherever he went, no matter how far they were apart. Dean knows the 'protection' story is fake, but whenever he feels alone or nervous he can't help catching the cool metal in his palm, rubbing the back with his thumb, to calm himself. A twinge of loneliness plays about him now, but then Jess smiles back at him brightly and the feeling receeds a little. 

"I'll get Sam, and then we can go."

Great Plains sings with the sound of children, their gleeful faces pressed against the glass displaying a tangled coil of snakes, whose forked tongues dart out to taste the air, eliciting shrieks of laughter that bubble up from the young spectators mouths. Sam looks just as at home, his lips turned into a smile as he watches the animals amble past, Jess's hand in his, standing closer to Dean than normal. The only time his smile falters is when he spies a family; two boys, a mother and a father, and Sam whispers that he wishes they had days like that when they were younger. Dean smiles sadly, and tells him if it's any consolation, he wishes they had too. What he doesn't tell his brother that he would die a thousand times over if it meant Sam could have had a childhood like that.

They spend the longest time at their favourite animals. Dean fawns over the Lions - all raw force and instinct - the King of his territory; something Dean aspires to be. Sam points out that the Lionesses are where the real power lies, because they're the ones that hunt and without them the males will die. While Jess preens at this, Dean tells his brother very eloquently to shut his damn cakehole. Sam spends minute after minute standing statue-still in front of the bird enclosure, silently watching the way they glide from end to end. It reminds Dean that Sam is like them - ready to escape from the cage to fly onwards and upwards to better things.

When they get to the monkeys, Jess sighs happily and clings to the younger man. Sam watches her tenderly, noticing the way her eyes follow the mother-and-baby duos. He allows himself a minute to imagine their future; children whose eyes shone with stars and a small house with a porch for the them to play on, tucking them into bed with whispered stories and kisses to their brows. Sam knows Jess would be a good Mom, and he cannot imagine spending the rest of his life with anyone else so he pulls her closer and bends to press his lips to her temple.

Behind them, Dean frowns at his phone, willing an answer from it, and when Sam turns around he quirks an eyebrow.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm waiting for Cas to text me." Dean is vaguely aware how needy the phrase makes him seem, but he can't bring himself to give a fuck. "I texted him hours ago."

Sam makes a quiet clucking noise, watching Jess wander off to buy them all ice cream, but he holds the conversation. "Saying?"

There's a touch of pride in Dean's voice when he speaks, because he asked Castiel on a sort-of-date with no prompting or advice. "I asked if he'd like to go for coffee sometime." There's silence for a few blissful seconds, and then the younger of them erupts into laughter. Sam speaks between gasps of air.

"You... You asked the guy who works in a coffee shop, somewhere surrounded by coffee, whether he'd... like to go... for more coffee?" Dean feels his skin heat up, the pride shrinking back into the depths of his consciousness.

"Shut up, Sammy."

He's saved by the return of Jess, who is struggling to carry three ice cream cones with only two hands, and who Sam rushes to help. In the time, Dean taps out another message to Castiel, telling the barista that if he's sick of coffee, he knows a good place to eat instead. His stomach flips as he presses send, because a sit-down meal sounds much more like a date than a warm beverage does. But then there's strawberry ice cream in his hand, his guilty pleasure, and Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, and they walk away, waving the zoo goodbye with gentle eyes and open hearts.

Later at The Roadhouse, Bobby will ask if Sam enjoyed his day, and Sam will nod, and Jess will kiss them both on the cheek, and Dean will smile.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, though, Bobby lays his hand across Sam's shoulder, and Dean knows this is when his brother slips through his fingers like those old grains of sand. He knocks back another shot and lets himself out from behind the scenes to pull Sam into his arms. "Take care, y'hear? And make sure you're in on Sunday evenings, cause I'm gonna call every week to catch up." Dean is acutely aware that he's probably babbling, but at this very moment in time he honestly doesn't give a fuck. Sam nods and grips him tightly, as if Dean is his oxygen and letting go will kill him. Eventually they separate, and the elder Winchester watches as his sibling takes Jess' hand and follows Bobby from the Roadhouse, raising two fingers in a mock salute before the swing-door closes behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at updates and I'm so, so sorry. I wrote a lot of this whilst on holiday as I had planned to, but after a certain point I got stuck and then when I got home school work got on top of me and wow it was just not my quickest update. But it's here now it's here and it's yours and I'll work on being faster for the next one. I've tried to be less florid and use fewer run-on sentences, as people have suggested, so hopefully that works out. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the update and, as always, comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!

If alcohol is, as saying dictates, the nectar of the Gods, Harvelle's Roadhouse would be a veritable Heaven. The homely bar is lined with shelves upon shelves of alcohol and the tables are full of patrons who are either people having fun, or people searching for fun at the bottom of their glass. Some are regulars - men and women who smile delightedly at the stout woman who bustles about behind the bar and her fire cracker of a daughter. These are the ones whose orders the staff know back to front and upside down. Other visitors are new, drawn in by talk about the establishment or its owners. Unless they are just travelling through, they too will submit to the honeyed liquids and the hospitality extended to everyone who passes through the doors, and they will become regulars themselves.

In the hive that Ellen and Joanna Harvelle have built from empty bottles and friendly smiles, they are the Queen bees and that's just how they like it. The two women are fierce and hardy, with a flair for keeping the customers in and trouble - for the most part - out.

In fact, Bobby had described Ellen as a minefield; something that could lie undetected for months until you stepped too close, and then you could just as easily be torn to pieces. Sam thought her more of a volcano, but that was neither here nor there, because Jess told him they were pretty much the same - dormant until angered. Still, Bobby Singer likes Ellen Harvelle for precisely those reasons; she is ballsy but friendly, and loud but soft, and full of so many paradoxes and oxymorons that it means the man is always on his toes around her. Or, more precisely, on his toes until she presses gentle lips to his temple after closing time and he will relax a little bit, even though he knows it's a bad idea. They aren't strictly together, but everyone to see them around can tell there is something between them, and that it's best not to intrude.

"What do you want this time, Singer?" Ellen asks when Bobby seats himself at the bar, hands facing down on the veneer surface. Sam and Jess slide into seats to the left of him, and Dean lifts the hinged part of wooden counter top to slip 'behind the scenes'. He drags a charcoaled half apron from a slightly off-center two pronged peg (beneath which Ed or Harry has scrawled 'drunk octopus wants to fight!!') and ties it around his waist, checking idly in the front pocket for a pen and order book. He smiles as he listens to Ellen and Bobby's not-quite-arguing.

"I want you to be my woman." Bobby says, sipping his scotch with laughter in his old eyes.

"And I want you to be gone, Robert Singer, but we don't always get what we want," the woman responds, and she pours another beer, ignoring Bobby's feigned hurt. She places the drink in front of Sam before turning to him and Jess. "I heard you're both upping sticks back to that university of yours tonight?"

There's a touch of regret in her voice as she says it, and Sam hears it straight off. He ducks his head once, as if hoping the question will fly above him. Jess leans over and touches Ellen's hand where it rests on the counter. "We'll be back before you know it," she says brightly, her rosebud mouth in a perfect smile. "Promise."

The bar keeper nods, and places her hand over the younger woman's before she excuses herself to deal with the table-bound clientele, leaving Dean to manage the bar. He bustles about, mixing whatever drinks are asked for, money changing hands as the alcohol is pushed across the counter.

"Jo, Ed and Corbett will be here in a bit," the elder Winchester calls to his companions as he diligently shakes a margarita for another shaken-not-stirred-James-Bond-would-be. He looks forward to when this unnamed man will take a sip, and splutter, and realise he should have just gone with something he knows he likes. Still, each customer - whether they choose the right drink or the wrong drink - brings money in, and some of that money will find its way to Dean and will in turn pay Sam's college fees. He pours the margarita into a glass and smiles sweetly at the man opposite him before turning back to Sam and Jess. "When they get here it'll be less hectic and I'll be with you then."

Sam makes a non committal noise and turns his eyes to Jess, taking in the way the artificial light streams around her - an amber halo in perfect rings - and the smile that never seems to falter. Jess peers up at him shyly through the fringe of her eyelashes, as if they're 19 and this is their first date all over again, and Sam realises he's never been so in love with anyone. _One day I'm going to ask her to stay with me forever_ , he thinks, and takes her hand in his as Bobby watches them silently. Bobby, who watched John and Mary Winchester fall in love, and watched John fall apart when he lost her. He can see parallels between the two couples, and he hopes to any Gods out there that Sam is spared the heartache his father underwent. The elder man sighs, and takes another long drink from his glass.

Eventually Ellen returns with crisp sheaths of paper containing orders for Dean, and two of the three missing bartenders. He's no Sherlock Holmes, but given the rose coloured flush creeping along Corbett's cheeks, the darkening mark against the pale column of his neck, and the way Ed's fingertips brush over the other man's, it's impossible not to see that they've been sloping off together. Dean dismisses the revelation as irrelevant, but feels a little pang of pride that after all these months of dancing around the two have finally got their act together. As he prepares drinks, he finds his thoughts wandering to blue eyes and the reply Castiel sent him. He knows it off by heart now, the tiny letters that make up words burned into his brain:

_Perhaps on Sunday we could do both?_

Sam had patted his shoulder and, not over the fact his brother's love interest shared the name of an angel, told him everything would be fine as long as he didn't scream 'God' during sex because he was pretty sure they didn't appreciate their father's name being brought up in situations like that. Dean had thrown a shoe at him in response.

Now, though, he loads a tray up and salutes Jo. Although young, Joanna Harvelle is heralded as gutsy and stubborn and bold; someone born with fire in their belly and passion in their heart. She winks and picks the drink-laden plastic circle from the counter top before taking off to the correct table, chatting amiably to the customers. Underneath the smile there are few that she genuinely likes, but scowls are less likely to bring back customers so she plays friendly. Sam watches her flit about for a moment, a butterfly moving from flower to flower, and turns to Bobby.

"You know we have to get going pretty soon?" The younger man asks, as Jo makes her way back to talk animatedly to Jess. It seems unlikely, but the two get on like a house on fire, and Sam is always glad because they're both his family now. "And we're swinging by Angelic before it closes, right?"

Bobby nods, draining the scotch from his glass. The drink burns as it makes its way down, but then again, that's kind of the point. The golden liquid is Bobby's get-away from everything, and it has been for years. Neither Sam or Dean ask why, but they figure whatever it is that made him seek comfort in the bottle is a big deal. "Give it another fifteen minutes, Sam. Although I still think you should let the idjit figure it out by himself." His voice is rough and hardened, and Bobby runs his fingers over the pattern on the now-empty glass as he and Sam watch the other Winchester mixing beverages and smiling at customers. "He'll have to stop flirting with everyone that moves though," Bobby continues, and Sam makes an undignified snorting noise at that, hiding his smile with a hand.

"His heart's not in it anymore. Look," Jess says, tilting her head so the loose curls fall about her face. Sam brushes one back without thinking.

"Yeah," Jo adds, cupping her chin in her hand as she waves a salute for more drinks to Ed, who is not-so-subtly watching Corbett's hands as he works. If he looks hard, Sam can see what the women beside him mean; although Dean is smiling, it seems forced and he avoids the fingers that reach for his arms as much as possible. Where his body language would once have said 'take me home', now it screams no in block capitals. "He may as well have a neon sign that says 'not interested'," Jo continues.

It's at that moment Dean turns his attention away from drinks and the customers craving his attention to see the line of family staring doe-eyed at him. He decides to call break and leave Ed and Corbett to manage the bar whilst he spends the little remaining time left with Sam. It sends a jolt of panic through him to think that within a handful of minutes, his brother will be gone with the whirl of wind, flying along the roads that take him and Jess far from the delicate ecosystem the three of them have built during Summer break. He knocks back a tequila shot in a futile attempt to knock back the emotion. He knows it will take a lot more to rid it completely, but he is also aware that he has a day with Castiel tomorrow, and being hungover will not sit well when the need for socialising arises.

"Did you enjoy yourselves today?" Bobby asks, his voice macadam and crushed glass and South Dakota drawl. It's not unpleasant, but it's raw, like the man himself. Sam nods, his hair bouncing. Jess presses a kiss to his cheek while Dean beams proudly at the memories they made earlier - at the fact that he did something right. He counts every one of these successes, measuring them up to the disappointment he has caused his brother throughout their many years on the planet. By his standards it's not quite balanced yet, but Dean knows he's getting there. Slowly.

They drink and chat, a little patchwork family. Laughter bubbles up from their chests to crest like waves breaking across the beaches John had taken them to once on the few breaks he had between tours, back when they were celebrating Sam's 11th birthday. The sea-salt spray and crying gulls had clung to their skin, and both boys had been shaking sand from their shoes and socks for days afterwards, but it had been worth it.

Now, though, Bobby lays his hand across Sam's shoulder, and Dean knows this is when his brother slips through his fingers like those old grains of sand. He knocks back another shot and lets himself out from behind the scenes to pull Sam into his arms. "Take care, y'hear? And make sure you're in on Sunday evenings, cause I'm gonna call every week to catch up." Dean is acutely aware that he's probably babbling, but at this very moment in time he honestly doesn't give a fuck. Sam nods and grips him tightly, as if Dean is his oxygen and letting go will kill him. Eventually they separate, and the elder Winchester watches as his sibling takes Jess' hand and follows Bobby from the Roadhouse, raising two fingers in a mock salute before the swing-door closes behind them.

The cold air hits Sam like a two-ton truck, and he huddles into his jacket as they walk the tarmac to Bobby's pick-up, the three figures cutting lines under the street light's glare. As he climbs into the back with Jess it feels like something is missing. _Dean_ , his brain supplies helpfully. He presses his nose to the cold glass and watches the Roadhouse fade from view as Bobby follows the roads to Angelic for the last errand Sam has to run. "I'm gonna go in alone," he says, his voice worn with sleep and sadness when the truck pulls up outside the café. "I won't be long." He's closing the door before anyone can argue, arms wrapped about his waist as he makes his way into the warmth of the coffee house.

"Welcome to Angelic, our little taste of heaven in the suburbs," a voice that is definitely not Castiel's says. "What can I getcha, gigantor?"

"I'm uh.. looking for Castiel Novak?" Sam manages, tipping his head to the side to regard the speaker. Wiping down tables is a man who can only be another member of staff, judging by the apron slung haphazardly around his hips. His dress is less smart than Castiel's was; thick strings of red beads loop around his neck and silver rings adorn his fingers. They clink as his hands move in circles over the table tops. Sam thinks he is, quite possibly, one of the smallest he's ever met.

The barista automatically straightens up and takes several steps forward, puffing his chest out a little in the process. His name badge catches Sam's eye. "Who's asking?" Gabriel glares up at Sam with suspicion in his eyes, which are almost golden in colour. His actions make it painfully obvious to Sam that somehow he and Castiel are related, because the response he gets are similar to ones Dean has displayed in the past; bordering on overprotective.

"Sam. I'm Dean's Winchester's brother. Y'know the one Cas..." he pauses, running a hand through his hair as he struggles with a way to define his brother and Castiel. He doesn't think they're dating yet, and he's unsure if Gabriel even knows. "..has been spending time with?" He finishes lamely.

The change in the shorter man is instantaneous; Gabriel's face splits into a grin, and he stuffs the cloth into his apron pocket to take his place behind the counter. "By 'spending time with', I assume you mean staring soulfully at one another and playing tonsil tennis with?" The man's voice is loud and bright, and Sam finds himself following Gabriel across the tiles. "Because lemme tell you my baby bro was pining over him for weeks. Learnt his coffee order by heart and everything.. Kinda sad if you think about it, amiright?"

Sam blinks, momentarily stunned at the way Gabriel is going a mile a minute in his speech, hands moving wildly in time with his words. He's flamboyant, more out-there than his brother, and Sam finds himself fascinated.

"So Samsquatch, whaddaya want Cassie for?"

"I need to tell him something about Dean. Could you get him for me?"

Gabriel spreads his hands, apology sweeping across his features. "No-can-do. He's got a migraine and he's sleeping it off."

Sam frowns, worrying his lip between his teeth. "Can you take a message?"

"I could."

The taller of the two takes a deep breath. "Can you tell him Sam dropped by to say that Dean has trouble trusting people since his last girlfriend, and that he doesn't show emotion well but that doesn't mean he doesn't love with his whole heart. When he's upset he'll push people away, but that's to see if they'll stay and... why aren't you writing any of this down?!" Sam's voice rises an octave, and he glares at the man in front of him.

Gabriel smiles sweetly and leans over the counter. He smells of cloves, and bubblegum, and Sam only just holds the frown in place because along with the warmth from the café it's comforting. "I said I could take a message, not that I would. If you really wanna tell Cassie this, you'll leave your digits and I'll get him to call you."

Sam vehemently tells the barista he's an ass as he pulls a pen from the older man's fingers and scrawls his name and number on a napkin that he presses angrily into Gabriel's hand before stomping back across the floor. "You better deliver that at least," he mutters as he shoulders open the exit and makes his way back to Bobby's peeling truck. He glances back to see Gabriel wink at him, and he slams the pick-up door.

Jess curls into his side, and Sam pulls her close, his anger subsiding when her fingers curl into his clothes. He falls asleep to the sound of her breathing, and when he next wakes up the airport is looming into view.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, you got that date with lover-boy today."
> 
> "I'm hearing a statement, Gabriel, but your tone implies it is a question," the barista answers, carefully coating the inside of the glass with sweet chocolate before pouring the hot milk in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ......Ugh this took even longer than the last update and it's not even very long and not much happens and fuck I am _so_ sorry! Like always, life got on top of me in the form of work and family life and romance (yep, I found myself a lovely guy) and the death of my Great Auntie, who has been like a third Grandma for nearly 18 years of my life. Needless to say, finding the time and energy to work on this has been incredibly hard.
> 
> I promise - p-r-o-m-i-s-e - the next chapter will be better and have more things going on.

Somehow Dean struggles through another three hours of service after Sam's departure. The separation hits him hard - a loneliness that itches underneath his skin, a constant irritant that he can't ignore - and he tries to drown it out with the buzz from tequila shots that Jo keeps sending his way. Dean knows he has plans with Cas the next day, but he can't resist the steady burn that the glass holds so he keeps drinking and drinking. By the seventh shot all he feels is a slight tingle. He supposes he's lucky for the tolerance he's managed to build up from years of disappointment and pent up emotion; the loss of his mother, his absent father, Sam moving to college, Ben's death and Lisa's grief.

The latter had been another blow that knocked him down; Lisa had been the only woman to steal his heart save his old teenage flame Cassie. They had made eyes at each other for months, eventually hooking up once before she had moved away to start a career. It was a one-night-stand that Dean kept revisiting in his thoughts, sometimes one he solved with his hand under the covers by dark, until he bumped into her and a young boy whilst grocery shopping; she had come home to build her life with her son in the same town that she grew up, like generations of her family before her. There was no dramatic reunion. It was all small smiles, and the sound of a baby crying in the distance, and shelves upon shelves of tins. Getting Lisa to agree to dinner took weeks, but with every rejection he was granted the sweet press of her lips to his cheek and a 'sorry' that made it clear she wanted to.  
  
"The last time I dated, I ended up heartbroken," she had confessed once when, months later, Dean had asked why. Her fingers were looped with his as they watched TV together, mugs of coffee steaming gently on the side table, Ben's head in Lisa's lap as he drifted between concious and unconscious. Although Lisa had never told him if Ben was his or not, the look on her face as she watched them together and the feeling in his heart told him what her mouth would not. "I guess I was scared."  
  
"Maybe we can be scared together," Dean had suggested quietly, and had proposed right then and there in the amber glow of the lights and the warmth of the sanctuary they had built together.  
  
And then it had come crashing down suddenly: Ben had died on his watch. The memory still haunts him, spikes of darkness that pierce his dreams, his subconscious replaying the way his kid's body had looked as it arched through the air over the bonnet of someone else's' car.  
  
"If only you had kept an eye on him! If only you had pushed him out of the way or pulled him back!" Lisa had screamed later, her red-rimmed eyes full of hatred and blame. Her voice had dropped to a whisper as her anguish took over. "It's all your fault!"  
Dean didn't know how a relationship was supposed to carry on when your fiancée had told you something like that. Despite his own self-loathing and grief he had tried to make it better, to fix it with support and apologies and love, but in the end he couldn't give back the one thing she wanted and it took its toll; they barely spoke, barely saw one another. The once happy life that they had built crumbled around the couple, and Dean no longer had the tools he needed to repair it.  
  
As Jo drives him home in the Impala, Dean realizes Castiel is going to be the first person he's dated since Lisa. Instead of feeling ill, it makes him feel good because it's a sign he's finally moving on and that night he sleeps peacefully. His dreams are unhindered by memories he'd rather stay locked away, and by the time his alarm sounds at 10am he's already up, showered, and dressed. His phone buzzes from its place in his pocket, and he draws it out with fumbling fingers.  
  
Cas Novak (mobile):  
What time would be best for us to meet? I'm currently helping Gabriel with the shop, so would it be possible for you to pick me up?  
  
'Since we're both awake, how about we make it 11-ish. We could do coffee at Angelic and then get lunch, if you want?' Dean types the words carefully, double checking them over and over to make sure it all makes sense. When he's happy, he rolls from the sofa and stands, smoothing creases from his shirt with his palms before realizing he has another request. 'Tell Gabriel he better have some of those croissants left... I'm hungry and they were delicious. Don't tell him that last part though.'  
  
Castiel smiles as the phone in his apron pocket chimes softly, alerting him to Dean's reply. He thinks he would feel almost giddy with excitement had the world not taught him hope breeds disappointment, and for a moment a strange sort of bitterness takes hold of him. He forces it down with a smile directed at woman sat comfortably at table nine and goes back to making the order of hot chocolate for Lilith, the child who had excitedly told him she was out with her Grandparents for the day. Gabriel had grinned and promised her extra whipped cream and marshmallows on top of her drink as her Grandfather ruffled the silken strands of her blonde hair, and Castiel will be damned if he lets her go disappointed.  
  
"So, you got that date with lover-boy today."  
  
"I'm hearing a statement, Gabriel, but your tone implies it is a question," the barista answers, carefully coating the inside of the glass with sweet chocolate before pouring the hot milk in. They're aware that they do it differently, but as far as they're concerned it makes for a tastier beverage. Castiel spoons whipped cream into the mug and fills a small bowl with marshmallows, arranging the order carefully on a plate before laying a chocolate stirrer across the artwork he has created. Gabriel takes it from him cautiously and carries it to the green-eyed girl clutching her Grandmother's hand expectantly, his ropes of red beads swinging as he sashays along.  
  
When he returns, he hitches a hip against the work surface and winks at his sibling.  
  
"To continue what I was saying," Castiel murmurs, ignoring Gabriel's actions, "You know full well that I am seeing Dean today."  
  
The shorter man taps his finger against his mouth in mock thought. "Y'know his gargantuan brother came in last night? He wanted to talk to you about your dearest darling, so I got his digits. I think he's expecting a call or a text at some point soon," he pauses, raising an eyebrow. When the younger of the two doesn't get the hint, Gabriel sighs and presses the napkin with Sam's number into his hand. "Do it now, Cassie, before the boy-wonder gets here."  
  
Castiel frowns at the information and sighs, drawing the phone from his apron. He keys out a response to Dean as he makes his way out back, away from the customers, and then tentatively taps the new number into the screen before hitting call. It rings an even number of six times - Castiel counts them through his nerves - before Sam picks up. He sounds groggy, and the barista finds himself saying hello and then apologizing immediately.  
  
"Castiel, Cas... please calm down," Sam tells him, smiling on the other end. "I just wanted to wish you luck today and let you know that Dean can be.... a bit emotionally stunted. He has a mixed history with love, and trust, and I didn't want you to get upset if he had trouble expressing how he feels."  
  
The worry dissipates suddenly, and Castiel finds himself smiling as Sam speaks. He had been worried that the younger Winchester wanted to warn him off, to tell him to leave Dean alone. It wouldn't have been the first time, after all. "Thank you," he replies sincerely, "I am glad to hear you have no qualms about your brother and I."  
  
"He deserves some happiness, Cas, and I'm glad he's found someone who is capable of helping him find it. I mean, Jack, Gordon and the Gosling Brothers were all terrible choices." There's an elongated space where Castiel is supposed to get it, but it stretches out: spools of tape that span across the distance between them. Sam clears his throat. "Jack Daniels? Gordon's Dry Gin? Gosling Brothers Ltd? They're alcoholic drinks, Cas... I was making a joke."  
  
"Oh," Castiel says, unsure what else there is to say. He smiles lightly. "Gabriel told me you met yesterday."  
  
There's an exhale that rattles over the line. It seems to sum up the shorter man in the way that words and syllables can't. "I know he's your brother and everything, Cas, but the dude's kinda an ass." On the other end, Castiel scrunches his nose in disagreement before realizing Sam can't see him and decides to change the subject. It allows them to talk amiably for a little while, exchanging pleasantries and laughter before the younger man excuses himself to deal with administrative details for his college courses.  
  
Castiel barely stutters out a goodbye to the parting words of "Good luck with Dean", and it sparks some confidence in the barista before the click sounds, echoing around his skull. He ends up giving his thanks into the emptiness before beginning his way back into the warmth of the café.  
  
The time flies by as he works, hands steady as he pours drinks tenderly, eyes soft and earnest while he chats to customers. When he has lulls in service he thinks back to what Sam said about meeting Gabriel and frowns as he watches his brother produce candy, seemingly from air, for Lilith. While the elder of the two siblings has always had a penchant for malicious pranks on those he deems immoral or rude, the two have always been firm believers that communication with customers is key. Where Gabriel learns faces, Castiel remembers names, and together they build relationships with as many individual customers as is possible. It means they always have at least one friend in the crowd, and Castiel cannot think of a time where his brother has been argumentative to their clientele.  
  
He brands it 'the Sam incident' and puts it down to tiredness on his sibling's part, storing it away in a compartment of his head, as he continues to wipe down the counter top as he hums under his breath. It's only when tanned, freckle-specked arms fold across the wood in front of him that Castiel stops, and looks up, his nose mere centimetres from the newcomer's. They stand there breathing in each other's breath, eyes searching but not quite finding.  
  
"Hello, Dean," Castiel says, his voice asphalt and serrated knife edges. His lips quirk at the edges a fraction and Dean smiles, his hand coming up to touch the other's forearm. From across the room, Gabriel folds his arms and raises his eyebrows.  
  
"Can I get my usual, Cas?" Dean asks, drawing back slowly as the soft chime of the door sounds alongside Gabriel's approaching footsteps. "And one of the almond croiss--."  
  
"I'll take it from here, Cassie," the other man interrupts, fingers scrabbling at the ties of his brother's apron in an attempt to usher him away. "Go and spend time avec le jeune homme attractif," he whispers into the shell of Castiel's ear, as the younger of the two wonders where, when, and why on Earth Gabriel learnt to speak French. "I'll have your orders ready in two shakes!" Castiel knows it's out of his control as soon as his brother triumphantly pulls the apron from his waist and shoves him towards Dean, who has made his way over to a table and is watching Castiel in a way that makes him feel all kinds of things he doesn't have names for at once.  
  
"So, how have you been?" The barista asks, taking a seat with calculated precision; He crosses his ankles beneath the table, hands clasped together on his knees as he tries to stay in control. The way he leans forward a fraction to count the freckles on Dean's nose gives him away, though, and Dean sighs.  
  
"Fine," he responds too quickly, and Castiel blinks a little, brow crumpling because he can tell something isn't right. Dean doesn't want to worry him, so he smiles gently and shakes it off, thanking Gabriel as he brings their drinks. "Y'know, I was going to take you out for burgers but that's not very classy for a date so I thought maybe--"  
  
"Did you say bird-gers," Cas asks, forehead crinkling in confusion as he watches Dean. "Because that does not seem to be a pleasant fate for the birds, nor does it seem fit for Human consumption." Dean stares at the other man in stunned silence for a few beats before he starts laughing, his whole body shaking with the action. When he thinks he's calmed down enough he risks a glance upwards at Castiel, who is sat with such a confused expression that it sets him off all over again.  
  
"Class be screwed," Dean gasps between snickers, "I'm introducing you to the joys of a double cheese burger and fries."


	12. Update from the author

If you're subscribed to this fic and you've got a notification for this new chapter, you are probably expecting an update ( _finally!_ I can almost hear you say) but I'm afraid that's not the case.

This is an incredibly overdue update to let you know that unfortunately I won't be continuing this story. I never wanted to be an author who left something people (seemingly) enjoyed unfinished but a lot of stuff has changed in my life since I first started writing this back in 2012 and as such, I am no longer interested in Supernatural. I don't, therefore, feel right continuing a fic for a fandom that I am not a part of and while I've tried to continue this so many times so as not to let people down, I can't put my heart into it and everything I write comes out lack-lustre, which isn't fair on you or on me.

I'm so sorry to do this to you all, and I'm sorry for not keeping you up to date with everything, but I hope you understand. I'm going to leave this up because it had a good run, and if you want to re-read it, it is here for you. If anyone wants to continue where I've left off, please feel free to do that too.

Thank you to everyone who left kind comments and kudos here, you are stars and I'm sorry to disappoint you all.

\--Roo.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Prologue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/489649) by [flyawayjaybird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyawayjaybird/pseuds/flyawayjaybird)




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